


Shattered Crystal

by Neko-Made-A-Smut (Nekhs)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Anal Torture, Aphrodisiacs, Blood, Crying, Forced Orgasm, Gaslighting, Gender Neutral, Heavensward Spoilers, Holy Water Enema, I hesitate to call this a relationship, I'm Sorry, If you squint at it anyway, Messy orgasm, NSFW, Other, POV Second Person, Pear of Anguish, Sickness Must Be Purged, Smut, Sobbing, The Vault - Bad Ending, Torture, Water Torture, Whipping, crossposted from tumblr, drool, emotional torture, magical healing, not safe for life, playing nurse, race neutral, trigger warning, what if
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-10 03:04:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6936871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nekhs/pseuds/Neko-Made-A-Smut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ser Charibert has been working diligently to break the Warrior of Light. Finally, he’s made some progress on that front …</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shattered Crystal

**Author's Note:**

> This is not a fic for the faint of heart.
> 
> I was aiming for fully gender neutral smut here, and I think I manged that.
> 
> Technically there are spoilers if you squint right, but given how manipulative Chari is being here, it's anyone's guess what really happened to anyone offscreen.

This is not the first time they’ve struck you, beaten you senseless, only to heal you fully in preparation for the next day’s labor.

They mock you – of course they do.

You were once the Warrior of Light, but now?

How long has it even been?

Long enough, surely.

Still, they press you for information, and still, you give them nothing.

Someday, you’re sure, your friends and allies will rescue you.

They wouldn’t still be trying to get you to talk, if there wasn’t a resistance yet, or that’s your reasoning.

Mayhap they managed to save Aymeric. It would be worth it, worth every beating, if that were true, though you have no way of knowing what is real, when they’ve fed you so many conflicting lies.

Worse yet is your “gift.”

The Echo has been a curse, rather than a blessing, here. Yesterday, it showed you a vision of your torturer, glee in his mind, as he whipped Aymeric bloody – with no context as to when it had happened, nor even if the Lord Commander yet lived. You broke, you _asked_ , and the man smirked, mentioning offhandedly that Aymeric died a month and more ago.

Likely another lie, but how can you be sure?

Ser Charibert is his name, a dark-skinned Elezen, and you hate him for what he’s done – and claimed to have done. Everything in you burns to kill him, to avenge your friends – to avenge yourself – but you are powerless, here.

No, today is not the first time they’ve beaten you, but that still does not prepare you fully for what is yet to come. Nothing could prepare you.

You’ve already suffered plenty, your back is dripping from the whip, and you didn’t question it when they pressed the healing tonic to your lips, drank it down without question or comment.

In short, you were a _fool_.

A flush crept up your cheeks as your addled mind tried to process what was going on. This healer is new, younger than the last. She runs her hands down your back, tracing each cut and filling you with fizzing light. Your spine tingles under her touch, and she doesn’t flinch, her fingers trailing now down to skim against your bottom, tantalizing you as she cups your toned flesh.

“Good,” she murmurs. “Ser Charibert wishes you to be prepared for another cleansing.”

What? Already?

You turn your head slightly, though with the blindfold in place, you can’t see what she’s about to do. You open your mouth to ask a question, expecting lies, expecting any response except the harness sliding over your skull, the metal ring locking behind your teeth, opening your mouth wide.

A noise of confusion escapes you, and she reaches down to gently scrape her gloved digits against your nipples. To your shame, they’re already standing erect, and her touch draws a soft moan from your lips.

“Good,” she repeats.

She pulls away, and you realize you want her touch, _need_ it, even.

“Ser Charibert believes a different approach may be necessary,” she says, her voice friendly, almost, conversational despite your newfound inability to speak.

Something shifts in front of you, and the chain that binds your hands together is lifted above your head, drawing you to standing. The shackles at your ankles are dragged, first the left, then the right, spreading your legs wide. The pose quickly becomes uncomfortable.

It’s at that point that you remember that you are fully nude. They took your clothes, your armor, your weapons, even your soul crystals, when they captured you, and you have not been permitted a scrap of modesty since. However, despite that, they have never deliberately done anything sexual – your response to their torture aside.

Now, you wonder what they intend.

You won’t have to wait long, however. “Visible signs of arousal – it appears the potion is taking effect.”

Something in front of you sounds like dripping water. “This spring crystal has been blessed after the prescribed fashion. It will not, on its own, cleanse your sin - ”

The rest of her words are drowned out by your scream, as a sudden harsh blast of cold water strikes your groin. It feels like a hundred needles piercing your flesh at once, and she is very thorough with the jet of scouring water, ensuring that you are entirely clean – though you feel dirty for enjoying the process as you do. You are trembling and needy, as she turns the stream elsewhere, finding parts of your body you didn’t _think_ were erotic, before.

With the healer’s meticulous attention to detail, the crystal chases away all traces of sweat and blood and filth on your skin. When she turns the blast to your nipples, it’s finally too much, and you cry out again, your orgasm spraying down your legs.

“Ah,” she says, indifferent to your cries. “That does happen. We may have calculated the dosage incorrectly, for your size. I suppose it will make things easier.”

You don’t have time to brace yourself – she turns the jet of water back to your inner thighs, then holds it firm against your genitals, dragging sobs from your throat as you come again, fire in your groin. Too much – it was too much, and too soon besides.

When your sex feels numb, and she can no longer draw a reaction from it, she stops the blast of icy water. Truly, you only know that because you hear it stop. Sagging, spent, you hang against the chains.

“The good news is, you are almost ready for my lord’s attention.” Her voice is damned near cheerful. “There is only one part of you that is yet to be cleansed.”

Oh, _no_.

She presses something cool and bulbous against your anus, and you shake your head, whimpering  inarticulate denial as it pushes firmly inside.

You’re pretty sure you feel something tear, but that hardly matters to _her_.

The stream begins at the same intensity as before, and you feel as though your gut is being distended. You are overfull, now, imagining at any moment you will simply pop, and that will be your inglorious end. Despite that, your traitorous sex quivers at this new sensation.

She removes the crystal, water spraying from your anus, taking all of your filth with it.

You’d do something, _anything_ , if not for the loving embrace of the chains holding you still. Instead, you hang almost lifeless, feeling empty as she sprays your legs down again.

She walks away, her heels clicking on the stone floor. “Ser Charibert will be with you soon, heretic.”

The door closes behind her, and then you are alone.

For the moment.

* * *

By the time the chamber opens again, you are a trembling mess of need.  

Although you’re not entirely sure _what_ was in the potion, it doesn’t take much effort to guess that it was some kind of aphrodisiac.

“You should know that we have your friends,” he says easily, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. “We have _always_ had your friends. This was never about making you talk.”

Gloved fingers skim up your inner thigh, and you shiver at his touch, thinking you would do anything for a stroke just an ilm or two higher. You are frenzied now, straining against the chains.

“If we wanted simple information, there are spells and potions which will yield the truth faster and without – well – this.”

His hand evades your straining loins, and a low groan of frustration escapes you.  

“Are you ready to beg for my touch, heretic?”

You nod. _Anything._

“A pity you will not have it, yet.”

Your voice escapes your throat as a tortured whine.

There’s a metallic noise behind you, something – opening?

No, not quite. “I would not have guessed a heretic such as yourself to be a virgin,” he notes. “Yet, Emalie tells me it is so.”

Something sharp prods against your small pucker, and you push back as much as you are able, desperate for stimulation. He chuckles, pushing it inside fully, ilm by ilm. Thin at first, it gets larger toward the base.

“I enjoy introducing heretics to this device,” he confesses softly against your neck. He twists something behind you, and whatever it is, it expands painfully inside of you, spikes catching your sensitive flesh. Another twist, another, and you can’t tell if you’re screaming from agony or ecstasy.

One more twist, and he steps back.

“You’ve gotten blood on my gloves,” he murmurs. “That won’t do.”

He circles around, and you hear leather brush against cloth. Then you hear leather crack.

You know the sound of his whip intimately, by now, and you moan in anticipation.

The first strike turns your moan into a delighted scream once more, the whip tearing at your most sensitive flesh, again and again, leaving nothing untouched.

You come _three times_ during the beating, before you faint outright.

* * *

You’re kneeling again, drained beyond measure.  

Blood and drool run down your front, and oh, you can tell he’s standing before you. You can hear his breathing, smell the sweat of his exertion.

Purging sin must be exhausting work.

“Are you ready to beg me for relief?” His gloved fingers tilt your chin back, slightly, though the blindfold remains in place. He removes his hand, and you nod once, twice, to let him know that you are agreeing, not just letting your head hang.

His voice has a bit of amusement to it now. “Are you ready to renounce your former friends, your old, _sinful_ ways?”

Another nod.

“Good.”

He presses something against your open mouth, something hot and hard, tasting of skin and salt.

Your tongue rubs against his shaft as he pushes it inside, worshiping it, worshiping _him_ , as he holds the back of your head.  

He thrusts into your throat, and you gag, again and again, as he uses you.

Still, you swallow greedily when he comes in your mouth.

“Emalie will return in an hour or two. I expect her concoction will have worn off by then.”

There comes a rustle of cloth, and then he leaves you, aching, bleeding, and alone.


End file.
